


All these things that I've done

by GreyHaven



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: (canon compliant - Michael's past), Alex Manes has PTSD, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking & Talking, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guitar playing to cope, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to War, kissing scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 20:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyHaven/pseuds/GreyHaven
Summary: When Michael came home and found his boyfriend drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey, shaking like a leaf, his first instinct was to ask what was wrong.Alex just shot him a look.Set six months post 1.12 "Creep" when everything is quieter and these two are in a happy place, Alex's traumatic past resurfaces and Michael has to try to pick up the pieces.





	All these things that I've done

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this after 1.12 "Creep" in the hopes of having it finished before the season finale aired (hahaha, I failed miserably, these two wouldn't stop angsting to let me get to the comfort part!). After watching the season finale, I thought about editing it to remain fully canon compliant but in the end I decided to let it stand as I'd originally intended so it ignores the canon events from 1.13.
> 
> With thanks to [Jadzi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzibelle/profile) for beta reading, and to all who have encouraged me to write and post <3

When Michael came home and found his boyfriend drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey, shaking like a leaf, his first instinct was to ask what was wrong.

Alex just shot him a look.

"No, seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Guerin. Can't a man drink in peace anymore?"

"You're in my trailer, so no."

Alex shot him another of those looks. He clearly thought it was a 'fuck off, Guerin' look but if that's what it was meant to be, it fell far short of the mark. His eyes screamed 'help me'.

Michael wasn't particularly convinced he was able to help anyone. Hell, he could barely help himself, let alone his boyfriend (it still felt good to think of Alex as _his_ \- even now, six months after they'd made it official, the thought of 'my boyfriend' still made his heart sing), and it crossed his mind that maybe he should call Maria. Even Liz. Even - god, he couldn't believe he was thinking it - _Kyle_. Any of them would be better at this than he would be.

But Alex was here.  In his trailer. Alex had chosen to come here with his pale face, streaks of dried tears on his cheeks, and red rimmed, damp eyes.  Of all the people he could have gone to, all the people he could have asked for help, he’d come to _Michael._

He needed help and he needed it now and that meant it was down to Michael to do what he could.  Honestly, he’d probably be happier just joining Alex in his drinking session, drown their sorrows in the cheap bottle of whiskey that Alex clutched to his chest. No. Counterproductive. Alex didn’t need a drinking buddy, he needed a -

He needed a _partner._

Still, one drink wouldn’t hurt, a show of solidarity.  Michael plucked the bottle out of Alex’s hands and poured himself a glass, took another, mismatched glass out of the cupboard and poured one for Alex, too.  Better that he drank a glass at a time than he finished the whole bottle.

Not that Michael would ever judge on that, he’d seen the bottom of a bottle more times than he could count and he definitely wasn’t coming at this from a position of _judginess,_ it was more a desire to _protect._ What he might do to himself was very different from what he wanted to watch Alex doing to himself.

He replaced the bottle with the glass and received a flick of Alex’s eyebrows by way of thanks.  At least some of the bereftness left Alex’s expression once he had a drink in his hand again, which wasn’t actually a good sign.  If the alcohol was comforting him more than Michael’s presence, there was something _really_ wrong.

Because they’d had bad times before.  Alex had stuck Michael back together more than once after Caulfield, with soft touches and kind words and yes, a certain amount of alcohol.  He wasn’t over it. He didn’t think he’d ever be over it. But Alex helped. Every day, Alex helped.

Now it was Michael’s turn.  

He had no idea where to start, given that Alex rarely dropped his guard and Michael had only seen him like this once and that was back when they were seventeen.  Not that he didn’t show emotion, he _did._ Often.  But not this - not this raw brittleness where it felt like he might shatter with one wrong word.

Ok.  Starting point.  Sit down. That, Michael could do.  He sat down on the bench, his left thigh pressed against Alex’s right, and leaned into his space to gently bump Alex’s shoulder with his own.  

Gratifyingly, Alex bumped his shoulder in return, even if there was the possibility it was an accident as he raised his glass to his lips to take a long swallow.

“Flashbacks,” Alex said abruptly. “That's what's wrong. Flashbacks.”

Michael nodded.  Flashbacks were something he understood all too well.  “Flashbacks to…? Caulfield?”

Alex shot him another of those looks. That would be a 'no’, then. Not Caulfield, though Michael wouldn't mind betting that there were still a few issues there, no matter how much they'd talked it through when Michael needed to.

“Losing your leg?”

That earned him another look, though a slightly less intense one this time so he was clearly getting closer. Why they were playing this ridiculous guessing game, he had no idea, but if Alex needed him to work it out for himself, to give him a way into the conversation, Michael would do his best.

“Afghanistan?” he tried again.

Bingo. Alex's breath caught in his throat, came out as a strangled little sound that might have been agreement.

Ok, that was good. That was progress. At least now Michael knew _what_ the problem was, even if he still had no idea how to help. Maybe he _should_ call Kyle. He wasn't particularly _up_ on these things but he was pretty sure Alex was suffering from PTSD and his best bet for getting help was going to be the professional sort. Not the 'barely keeping himself together, can't look after a goldfish’ sort of help.

But then maybe that was exactly _why_ Alex had come here. Because he knew Michael would understand better than anyone else. How some days you had control of this shit and other days it controlled you and some days you couldn't tell the difference between the two.

Yeah. He understood.

He topped off Alex's glass, then his own. Maybe he wouldn't let Alex drown himself in a bottle but some conversations required alcohol.

Alex gave him another flick of his eyebrows, another thanks, and drank again.

“So. Afghanistan. Flashbacks. Drinking to try to stop them. Anything else I should know?”

“Nope.”

“Talk to me, Alex.”  Michael tried to sound gentle.  Soft. Tried to keep the pleading note out of his voice.  Tried to sound encouraging, coaxing, not _desperate._

He didn’t succeed but maybe that hint of desperation was exactly what Alex needed because - _finally -_ he turned to face Michael, really saw him for the first time and in that moment, he _shattered._

Alex shattered and Michael’s heart broke at the first tiny wobble of his chin.  

“What do you want to know, Guerin?” His voice cracked as he said Michael’s name.  “You want to know about the people? The lives I took? How they burned? How they screamed?  You want to know all of that shit?”

“Yes,” Michael said simply.  “If that’s what you need to get off your chest, yes, I want to know all that.”

Alex dissolved at those words, folded in on himself with a strangled sob.  He would have kept folding until he collapsed onto the floor but Michael caught him under his arms, steered him towards his chest. With a soft, broken sound, Alex leaned his forehead on Michael's collarbone, brought his hands up to Michael's ribs and dug in. Clinging.

Michael curled his fingers around the back of Alex's neck and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“I hear them.” Alex's voice cracked again and he swallowed audibly before he continued. “I smell them. What have I - what did I _do,_ Guerin?”

“Your job, Alex. You did your job.” It was all Michael could think to say, the only scrap of comfort he could offer. Small comfort though he knew it would be.

“That's what I told myself,” Alex said.  “I- oh god-” The final word was barely intelligible; it came out as a harsh sob that sounded like a cry of pain.

One that Michael almost echoed when Alex shifted suddenly and trapped his hand between his elbow and the back of the bench.  The hand that Jesse Manes had smashed. The reminder that Michael didn’t get to have good things. The reminder that he shouldn’t hope because hope was a dangerous thing.

Alex shifted again, caved against Michael’s chest, almost exactly where he’d been a moment before.  At least Michael could give him that. Even if he couldn’t give him anything else, he could hold him, give him a space where he could let all this shit out.  Where he wasn’t alone. He kissed the top of Alex’s head again, curled his fingers around the nape of his neck and gently rubbed behind his ear with his thumb while he searched for the right words, for something - anything - to say that would mean something.  That would make a difference. Finding nothing, he sat quietly and let Alex cry it out in huge sobs that wracked his whole body.

Eventually, Alex's sobs trailed off with a little hiccup.  “That's what I told myself,” he repeated, calmer now, his voice level again. “That's the excuse I made but it's not - it isn't enough, is it?”

“It's enough.”

“It can’t be enough.  People died - I _killed people_ because I was _doing my job._ That’s not - it’s not an _excuse,_ Guerin.  It makes me a monster.”

Michael gently moved his hands to Alex’s shoulders and pushed, easing him back so he could study his face.  “It’s enough _for now,_ Alex.”

Alex met his gaze, his expression one of disbelief, though his eyes were full of barely disguised hope.  “For now? And what about tomorrow?”

“We worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

_Tomorrow_ was going to involve getting Alex some proper help with an actual doctor or a therapist or somebody.  As much as Michael might be able to empathise, to join him in a few glasses of whiskey - or a lot - he was out of his depth here and he knew it.  He could hold Alex, or distract him from his thoughts. He could be here. He could be present. He could listen. But he couldn’t help. It killed him that he couldn’t help, that he couldn’t _fix it,_ but even Max couldn’t fix this.  What they’d made him do - what his _father_ had made him do - had left a deep, emotional injury with scars to match the physical ones and they needed treating, the same as his physical injury had been treated.  

Alex nodded and Michael leaned forwards, pressed his forehead against Alex's.

One breath. Two. Sharing the same air; whiskey and tears. Alex's this time, instead of Michael's, but somewhere they'd been before. Like the night after Caulfield when Alex had arrived at the Airstream with a six pack and his guitar and said “I thought you might like some quiet”. He'd played for Michael, calmed the fluttering in his chest, and then they'd played together, Alex on the chords, Michael strumming, and Michael had wept. Deep, cathartic tears that turned into laughter when they hit one too many wrong notes. They'd set aside the guitar then, looking for a more physical connection and, afterwards, he'd slept in Alex's arms til morning, calmer and quieter than he'd been for ten years.

He wanted to give Alex that now.

“Guitar in your truck?” he murmured.

Alex pulled away and nodded again, giving Michael all the encouragement he needed to unfold himself from the floor and go out to Alex's truck.

When he came back in, moments later, he set the guitar in Alex’s lap and took a step back.  “Play.”

Alex shook his head.

“Play,” Michael said again, more insistently. “I can't, so you...play.”

Alex shook his head again. “Together, Guerin.”

_Together._ Together sounded good.  Like last time.

Michael sat down beside him, stretched his arm along the bench behind Alex’s shoulders and waited while Alex arranged the guitar; rested it on the edge of Michael’s thigh where they could both play.

They’d only done this once before.  Alex had suggested it again but Michael had refused.  It reminded him too much of what he’d lost. But today, Alex needed it and Michael was happy to do what he could and maybe playing together would start reminding him of what he’d gained instead of what he’d lost.

Starting had been awkward then and it was awkward now, as they found their way into the song, worked together to pick out the notes.  It was far from perfect but there was something beautiful hiding in the imperfections. Something _real._ Something very _them._

By the time they moved onto the second song, they were curled against each other.  Alex’s head rested on Michael’s shoulder; Michael’s arm lay around Alex’s shoulders, resting lightly there.  Their fingers moved in tandem, plucking out the notes. They breathed together, completely in sync as they played, calm and quiet.

They finished the third song and Michael moved away. He poured them each another whiskey and sipped; listened as Alex kept playing. Listened as Alex started to sing.

“When there's nowhere else to run, is there room for one more son.”

The lyrics were familiar from years of hearing it played on the radio. Not one of their most popular songs, maybe, but one that had always made Michael think of Alex. His heart twisted in his chest as he recalled ten years of missing him. Ten years of longing, certain that his heart would never be the same again. He'd been right. His heart hadn't been the same again. Not until after Caulfield when Alex had turned up and begun the process of helping Michael stick the shattered pieces of his soul back together.

“I want to shine on in the hearts of men. I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand.”

_Ouch._

Michael winced and immediately dropped his eyes so that Alex wouldn’t notice but that was even worse.  His gaze landed on his twisted, broken fingers. He was never free of it, never _forgot,_ but _god_ the reminder hurt.  His heart had never been the same and neither had his hand.  He forced himself to look back up, to look anywhere except _there,_ and stared at the guitar instead; at Alex's long, clever, perfect fingers picking out the notes.

“Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner. You know you gotta help me out.”

Those words - _you gotta help me out -_ sounded like Alex was singing directly to Michael, asking for help in the only way he knew how, and Michael wanted to reach out, to hold him. Wanted to tell him he never looks away. That he'd always be there. That he'd give whatever help he _could,_ even if it wasn't much because he didn't have much to offer in the first place. He wanted to reassure Alex that he'd never be put on the backburner, he'd never be a second choice, that he was always Michael's priority, no matter what.

He didn't. He didn't reach out and he didn't say anything, he just sat and let Alex use the music as catharsis. Everything else was a conversation for later.

“I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.”

_Oh, but you are. You're a soldier and you're the best of them, a million times the soldier your father ever was. More, even, because there's no comparison._

Michael didn't say that either. It was true, though. Alex had always been a better man - military and otherwise - than Jesse Fucking Manes. He'd risen above his upbringing, taken what could have destroyed him, what could have turned him hard and bitter like his father, and allowed it to make him kind and soft. He was the best sort of soldier. A protector.

“Over and again, last call for sin  
While everyone's lost, the battle is won  
With all these things that I've done  
All these things that I've done”

His voice was tight, filled with grief and agony and regret but he finished the song, his eyes filled with tears and then - _then -_ Michael reached out, stilled his hand on the guitar and gently removed it from his grip. He set it to one side and leaned in, kissed the scar on Alex's forehead.

Alex made a strangled little sound. Something broken. Something raw and painful.

For a split second, Michael thought he'd done something wrong, something terribly, unforgivably wrong. Leaned on Alex's leg badly, nudged his prosthetic, hurt him in some way. Maybe that the soft affection had been _too much._ His heart stuttered in his chest and he pulled away, his palms turned up, gentle and unthreatening, an apology on his lips.

An apology that died when a single tear ran down Alex’s cheek.  And another, then another, then another.

Michael leaned back in, his hands cupping Alex’s jaw, and kissed away each and every tear that fell.  He let Alex cry. Let him cry it out and didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer any comforting words that he knew would be hollow, and when the last tear (for now, anyway), had fallen, he pressed his forehead to Alex’s, silently letting him know _‘I’m here’._ He felt rather than heard the tiny hitch in Alex’s breath, indicating that he was about to pull away, and gently curled his hand around the nape of his neck to keep him close.

The tiny gesture, the gentle insistence that Alex _stay,_ made Alex collapse against him, loose limbed and pliant and somehow _drained,_ as though holding all of that crap inside him had been all that was keeping him afloat and now that he’d let it out, there was nothing to stop him from sinking.  

Except Michael.

Somehow, Michael Guerin, fuck up extraordinaire, was the one thing holding Alex together.  The thought shot tendrils of fear through him, reaching out with icy fingers into the darkest corners of his mind.   _What if you fuck this up too, Guerin?_ they taunted.   _What if you fuck this up like you fuck up everything else?  What if you let Alex down?_

He silenced them.  Alex needed him. He could worry about the demons in his head another day.

Right now, he was going to hold Alex tightly and wish that he could make all of this better.  He couldn’t, he knew that. He couldn’t _save him._ He couldn’t pick Alex up or magic it away, no matter how much he wished he could.  All he could do was stand beside him while Alex saved himself - the hard way. Therapy and work and more therapy and taking everything one day at a time and even then maybe his sleep would still be broken by nightmares and his nights haunted by flashbacks but maybe - just maybe - it would get easier, fade more into the past and become manageable.

While he’d been lost in those thoughts, Alex had sunk lower, now almost lying with his head in Michael’s lap.  A joke was on the tip of Michael’s tongue - _while you’re down there,_ delivered with a little smirk, to which Alex would smirk back and say something like _only if you repay the favour_ and they’d be back on familiar, safe territory.  He didn’t say it. Not now. Now was really not the time for that.

“Come lie down?” he said instead, softly, almost tentatively.  

Alex lifted his head and mumbled something that might have been agreement.  It certainly wasn’t disagreement, anyway, so Michael let out a little sigh of relief.  

Maybe that was stupid, to be relieved that Alex had agreed, but it would be fair to say that - generally speaking - when they spent the night together, it involved having sex.  Asking Alex to just come and lie down, to rest, maybe even to sleep without the prelude of screwing each other breathless first...that was different. New. And just a tiny bit scary.

He helped Alex uncurl himself and led him the two or three steps from the bench across to the bed.  It would normally have been two strides but Alex was limping, badly, and Michael ended up half carrying him before (gently) depositing him onto the bed where Alex immediately tried to snuggle under the covers.

“Come on, Alex.  Clothes first,” Michael said.

“Don’t wanna,” came the response, muffled by the pillow.

“I know but you’ll be more comfortable.”

Alex groaned and reluctantly sat up again, swaying slightly - whether from the whiskey he’d drunk or from exhaustion, Michael couldn’t tell but he put a steadying hand on Alex’s shoulder and crouched down in front of him.

“Let me help,” he said, his hands already on the laces of Alex’s boots.

By the time he’d got Alex out of his boots, Alex was fumbling ineffectually with the buttons of his shirt and Michael gently brushed his hands out of the way.

Alex let his arms drop to his sides and stared down, his eyes locked on Michael’s fingers.  “Sorry,” he said, quietly, softly, as though the word cost him a lot to say.

Michael faltered to a stop, midway through undoing a button, and flicked his eyes up to Alex’s face.  “For what?”

“Your hand.”

Michael's heart stuttered in his chest. Had Alex somehow picked up on Michael’s thoughts from earlier? Was he really bringing that up _now?_ One of the worst memories of his life. Not because of the injury he'd suffered - that was bad enough but just another in a long line of abuses he'd suffered - but because Alex had had to watch.

“I'm sorry for your hand,” Alex said again; his voice was barely above a whisper and still Michael could hear the regret.

“Alex,” Michael said, straightening a little to rest one hand on Alex's shoulder, one on his jaw, as though touching him would make Alex believe what he said. “That was not - that was not your fault. In any way.”

Alex flinched, whether at Michael's words or his touch, he wasn't sure, but he persisted anyway.

“Alex,” he said again. “It was not your fault. I don't blame you for that.”

“I was there. I could've stopped him. Helped you.”

_I could have saved you._

The words were left unspoken but implicit in Alex's tone and the realisation hit Michael like a brick. That day in the tool shed, that was part of it. Part of Alex's PTSD. Neither of them had ever been able to put it behind them and his mangled hand was a constant reminder. He dropped it away from Alex's jaw, gripped Alex's shoulders with both hands instead. “No. He would've killed you.”

Alex's shoulders twitched beneath his hands, an almost shrug with a matching little flick of his eyebrows and a huff of breath that said 'maybe it wouldn't have mattered if he had’. “I still see it, you know. Hear it. The thud, the crunch. Your screams. Every day, I have to live with the knowledge that I stood there and watched and did _nothing.”_

Michael's fingers tightened on Alex's shoulders and in that moment, he made the decision to ask Max to heal him.  Sure, maybe there'd be some explaining to do but nothing they couldn't handle. He might not be able to take away the memories, from either of them, and he wouldn’t be able to _fix it_ but he could take the constant reminder away from Alex.

“I did nothing,” Alex said again, more quietly this time.

“There was nothing you could've done. Nothing. We were _kids,_ Alex. Don't judge yourself then by what you would - or could - do today. If it happened again tomorrow, you'd probably pull your leg off and knock him out with it.”

That raised a little grin. “It was my crutch, actually.”

“You - you knocked your father out _with your crutch?”_

Alex's grin grew wider. “Yup. That's why I stopped using it.”

“Alex Manes,” Michael said. “You are a fucking badass.”  He couldn't hide the slightly amused pride in his voice and Alex seemed to light up, his smile so wide and bright and genuine that Michael couldn't resist leaning in for a gentle, almost reverent, kiss.

Alex kissed him back and Michael lost himself in the press of soft, warm lips; in the taste of cheap, harsh whiskey underlined with a hint of salt from the tears that still stained Alex’s cheeks.  He lost himself and Alex did too. The remaining tension seeped from his body as he relaxed into the kiss and Michael allowed himself to relax too. The immediate crisis was over. Professional help in the morning.

For now, he was going to carry on with getting Alex into bed so he could get some rest.  With a soft sigh, he pulled away and turned his attention back to the buttons on Alex’s shirt.

Once Alex’s clothes were littering the floor and he’d received a reproachful look from Alex for leaving them where they lay instead of folding them and placing them neatly on the bench, Michael started on the straps of his prosthetic.  He worked slowly, careful not to antagonise the already inflamed skin, and stilled for a moment, gazing up at Alex. In another time, one with less alcohol and less emotionally charged (or at least _differently_ emotionally charged), perhaps it would be romantic, even _hot,_ that he was kneeling at Alex’s feet in a way that activated some deep, submissive part of himself.

_Not now._

He set the prosthetic neatly beside the bed where Alex could get to it easily in the morning and returned to his position in front of Alex, rested his hands lightly on Alex’s hips and dipped his head.  For a split second, he thought about staying there. Just kneeling with his head in Alex’s lap, maybe with Alex’s fingers combing through his hair. Alex always said he loved his curls.

Only for a split second, though.  Tonight, Alex needed him and Michael wouldn’t deny him that.  He dipped his head lower, tenderly brushed his lips across the scarred skin of his stump, red and inflamed from the prosthetic.  As high-tech as it was, there was no way to avoid the pain the came with wearing it - pain that Alex hid well but Michael could always recognise in the pinch of his face and the tension in his shoulders.

Pain that Michael desperately wanted to take away.  He let his lips linger, an attempt to ‘kiss it better’.  Not that he _could._ He knew that.  He knew that as well as anyone but that didn’t mean he couldn’t damn well _try._

A futile gesture, maybe, but one he hoped would convey a message.  

_I see you.  I love you.  Ok, you’ve done this shit, you’ve been hurt, you’ve_ already _paid the price.  I love you. No matter what you think you’ve done.  I love you. Every part of you._

Words he couldn’t say.  Not like _that,_ anyway.  He could find euphemisms - _I never look away, we were cosmic, sex was epic -_ a hundred different ways of saying the same thing without _actually saying it._ He’d told Alex he loved him once.

_Once._

And he’d been somewhat drunk.  Had, in fact, yelled it for everyone at the Wild Pony to hear before Alex had not-so-gently ushered him outside, kissed him hard and whispered that he loved Michael, too.

Words that had Michael grinning like an idiot for days afterwards but neither of them had dared to repeat them since.  They’d slipped back into the familiarity of their own words, where it was warm and comfortable and safe.

Michael slipped back there now, lifted his head and met Alex’s eyes.  “You, Alex Manes, are _cosmic.”_

Alex’s lips quirked into a grin.  “And you, Guerin, are _epic.”_

Michael smiled up at him and uncurled himself from the floor so he could help Alex under the covers.  He quickly undressed, tucked himself in behind Alex, pressed tightly against him and pulled the blankets around them, cocooning them from a world that had been too harsh to both of them.  Too warm and cosy to move, he used his powers to flick the light switch, throwing them into comforting darkness.

He was drifting, already halfway to sleep, when Alex spoke.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Michael smiled against the back of Alex’s neck.   _Michael,_ not _Guerin._ Said softly, not exasperated.  It wasn’t the first time Alex had used his name but it was still unusual enough, even now, to give him a little happy jolt.  It was warm. Intimate. In the same way that _I love you_ was intimate.  

It spoke of a soft sort of closeness and a depth of feeling that they didn’t often express.  Alex didn’t just mean _thanks._ He meant _thank you._ There was a world of difference between the two.

Michael kissed the back of his neck and nuzzled into his hair.  “Anytime, Alex,” he murmured. “Rest now.”

Alex nodded and wriggled back against him, pulled Michael’s arm more tightly around his chest, almost cuddling it and was asleep moments later, his breathing steady and regular with a soft snore coming on each inhale.

The sound was rhythmic, soothing, and Michael allowed himself to sleep, still holding Alex close.

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know the song Alex sings, it's All These Things That I've Done by The Killers and you can listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZTpLvsYYHw)


End file.
